


Something Borrowed

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Dexter (TV), Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Donna take a holiday in Miami but end up entangled in the Bay Harbor Butcher serial murder investigation, thanks to a message only the Doctor can decipher. The Master makes the Doctor an offer he will find difficult to refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Basingstoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/gifts).



> This "Dexter"/"Torchwood" crossover episode of "Doctor Who" takes place at any time in the Doctor's travels with Donna, though perhaps best before "Turn Left" and the return of Rose Tyler. It is slightly Alternate Universe only because it does not fit with the established timeline of the Master's resurrection. This is the PG version of this story. The slashy/kinky NC-17 version is largely identical (but for the slash and kink!), and will be posted separately.
> 
> This story is dedicated to Basingstoke, who gave me permission to give myself permission.

“Tell me where we’re going,” Donna demanded, gripping a handrail as the TARDIS bobbled strongly to the left, then swirled a quarter-turn anticlockwise. “No, wait. Don’t tell me. Just promise it’ll be lovely.”

The Doctor adjusted his video monitor, then twiddled a few knobs and gave the console a bit of a slap. “Lovely,” he agreed. “Oh, it’ll be lovely indeed.”

Donna shook a finger at him, “Warm, as well. Maybe a green-sand beach by a purple sea. . .y’know, with waves just enough that you can ride them into shore and hardly have to kick your feet. Is there a planet with no UV rays?” She fluttered her fingers delicately next to her cheek. “Fair skin and all. Don’t want to get freckles.”

The Doctor exclaimed, “Ah, to be at the seaside!” He shot Donna a grin, showing the dimples in his cheeks. There was a slight thud and the TARDIS shivered, then settled.

“And here we are,” the Doctor announced.

Donna, already clad in a flower-print sundress and white sandals, picked up a large, straw totebag that had been sliding about on the floor near her feet. She reached inside and withdrew a floppy white hat, which she placed purposefully on her head.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asked the Doctor, jutting her chin a bit.

The Doctor mugged surprise at the question, looking down his front. He rocked back on his heels a bit and waggled the toes of his trainers.

“A suit?” Donna asked. “At the seaside, you’re wearing a suit?”

The Doctor gave a slight shrug and moved toward the door of the TARDIS as he replied, “Never know who you might meet.”

Donna practically ran to the door, and together, they flung it open. Before them was a wall of vegetation: slick-looking leaves the size of elephant’s ears, whiplike grass taller than either of them, scads of white blossoms running rampant among all the green. Although the Doctor had set the coordinates for their journey, his face revealed a hint of surprise. Donna took a step outside the TARDIS onto mossy ground. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply.

“Smells like. . .” she began, then inhaled once more. She squinched up her face a bit as she said, “Smells like laundry softener, really.” She gave a little shrug. “Anyway, it’s warm.” She glanced skyward. “Blue sky. One sun. What is it, then--an alternate-universe Hawaii?”

The Doctor, hands thrust in his pants pockets, strutted about a bit, then vanished down a pathway through the plants. “Not meant to be, no. . .” Donna heard him say. She scurried in the direction he had gone, along a twisting walkway bordered by exotic tropical trees and flowering bushes.

“Ooh, there now,” she called after him, her tone less cheerful, “Smells a bit like diesel exhaust.” She fumbled in her totebag and came up with a giant pair of sunglasses, which she unfolded and slid on. “Doctor?” she called, half-running up the path, turning corners every few yards. “Doctor, where are you?”

Just then, she emerged between two huge topiaries in full, riotous orange blossom, onto a small clearing. Before her were giant wrought-iron gates, beyond which lay a four-lane motorway and then an enormous stretch of white sand and the crashing waves of a blue-green sea.

The Doctor grinned and extended his arm as if offering the entire scene for Donna’s approval. He announced, “Miami Beach!”

It was then Donna noticed a sign hung on the gates proclaiming this to be Miami’s Memorial Botanical Gardens. She looked out at the cars racing along the road, took in a quintessential Miami seaside cityscape: food and t-shirt vendors, people dressed in everything from business suits and briefcases to string bikinis and rollerblades. And the beach! The lovely, lovely beach.

“Oh, you brilliant man,” she gushed, her smile beaming. She gave the Doctor a quick hug; something over his shoulder caught her eye. “I can rent a lounge chair just there,” she said, pointing across the road, “And there’s a newsstand full of trashy gossip mags. Oi,” She rifled through the totebag again and then asked, “Have you got any money?”

The Doctor looked baffled. “Have I got any money?” he echoed.

“Yes, you know. Money. American money.”

The Doctor grumbled, “Whooshing through Time and Space, showing you the splendours of the universe and now I’m your--what--automatic teller machine?”

Donna put a hand on her hip and tipped her head meaningfully to one side, frowning. Her other hand she flung out in front of her, palm up.

The Doctor let out an exasperated groan, but reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a handful of wrinkled bills, which he placed in Donna’s upturned palm.

“Thank you,” she said, and if it is possible for a curtsy to be sarcastic, the one she offered certainly qualified. She tucked the money into the halter of her dress and shook her long, ginger hair over her shoulders. “I’ll be on the beach if you need me.” She strode toward the road, and waited at a corner for the WALK signal. She glanced back at the Doctor, who waved and nodded. “What’ll you do?” she called to him.

“Don’t worry about me,” was his reply. “I’ll find something to do.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Donna scolded with a smile. “We’re on vacation.” She extended both arms and waggled her hands dramatically. “Miami!”

The Doctor just grinned and waved her goodbye again. Loosening his necktie, he turned away from where Donna was vanishing into a crowd of tourists, and a newspaper headline caught his eye. He crouched down in front of the newspaper box, where the headline screamed, “Bay Harbor Butcher Strikes Again.” He slid his smarty-pants spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose and scanned the first few paragraphs of the accompanying article. There was a picture of a familiar figure in an anachronistic coat--far too heavy for Florida weather, surely--and the caption beneath it read, “Authorities will not confirm the identity of this man, thought to be a paranormal researcher, who arrived yesterday at the Miami Metro Police Department.”

The Doctor quickly and surreptitiously aimed his sonic screwdriver at the coin slot of the newspaper box, yanked it open and withdrew a Miami Clarion-Reporter. He squinted at the photo, as if he had a doubt of who he saw there.

“Captain Jack,” he said under his breath. “What’s brought you into the investigation of an American serial killer?” Slipping off his eyeglasses, and tucking the newspaper under his arm, he strode up the sidewalk to the next corner, then turned toward downtown. Surely he would find something to do while Donna sunbathed, though he could not guarantee he would stay out of trouble. . .


	2. II.

Dexter Morgan was methodically unrolling vast sheets of clear plastic tarp and taping them to the floor of a walk-in closet so large it bordered on vulgarity. The house was foreclosed and vacant--seemed to have been either long ago looted or never even lived in--sited in a neighborhood full of foreclosed homes. The enclave of a dozen or so “McMansions” in a tony Miami suburb was like a modern ghost-town; his reconnaissance visits to the subdivision had revealed that there was only one occupied house, nearly half-a-mile distant on the opposite branch of a “Y”-shaped road.

Late for work already, Dexter reminded himself not to rush lest he make a mistake. He had far too much to lose now that Rita and the kids were depending on him--to be caught would mean not just the end of his own freedom, but the shattering of their lives, as well. And while he couldn’t muster a feeling like guilt or dread about the prospect of Rita devastated, the kids heartbroken--knowing what he really was, a monster--he knew from a lifetime of lessons that such an event would be Very Bad for them, and it was not for him to cause Good People to suffer Very Bad events. “Harry’s Code” were rules set down for him by his father as he grew up and grew into his own knowledge of his drive to do Very Bad things--to kill. Harry had taught him to recognize, intellectually though not emotionally, the rippling web of cause and effect in the world, and that he must be moral in his choices.

There was still much to be done to ready his kill-room, but for now he secured duct tape along the edge of the tarp by running the toe of his shoe (encased in a sterile booty) along it. Dexter checked his watch, swiped his sweaty forehead along his forearm (also clad in a sterile suit), and calculated how much time he would need to finish the preparations. An hour, he figured, maybe a little longer. He would hang more tarp to cover the walls and ceiling. The electricity was still connected and live, which was good, so he would bring a couple of lightbulbs to replace the empty sockets in the ceiling fixture. In the center of the room stood an island of sorts, with shallow drawers for neckties or lingerie, and a pink-beige marble top; the wood door to the master bathroom was already laying on top of it to make a work-surface for him, fastened down tightly with ratcheting straps.

Dexter worked at his forehead with his thumb; he had the beginning of a headache. He’d been having them for months: a dull, throbbing thrum that started above his left eye and stretched back along his skull to settle high in his neck. It was like a pulse, but quicker, and the throbbing would go on for hours, sometimes faint and merely annoying, sometimes so intense he would catch his breath, or have to lie down. Rita would bring him a cold washcloth to lay across his closed eyes and cluck with worry over him. He assured her it was fine, it would pass, and he took a couple of Advil. Twenty minutes later, he would sit up and tell her he felt better, the medicine helped a lot. But it didn’t. The headaches were impervious to medication, sleep, changes in diet, shots of straight vodka, even a syringe of morphine he’d stolen from the M.E.’s office. For now, he heard a low rhythmic thrum in his ears, like a rush of blood, and the pain above his eye was annoying, but bearable.

LaGuerta would be annoyed; if he left immediately, he’d still be 25 minutes late to work. He had to leave the kill-room behind, think up a legitimate-sounding lateness excuse (maybe something about the kids and the school bus?), and arrange his features into that series of teeth-baring, wide-eyed, brow-furrowing grimaces that fooled others into thinking he was like them. Normal. With feelings. It was exhausting. Dexter stacked the half-used roll of plastic sheeting with his toolkit and other supplies in the corner of the small room, grasped the doorknob with a gloved hand, and slipped out.


	3. III.

Captain Jack Harkness--former Time Agent and head of Torchwood 3--shuffled papers, photos, and notes around on a conference table in the Homicide Investigation division of Miami Metro Police. Pacing the floor nearby was Lt. Maria LaGuerta.

“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Jack said, using the British pronunciation-- ”leff-tenant”--by force of habit, “This is all very interesting--” He shoved a graphic crime scene photo into a folder, ”And gruesome--but I don’t see anything here that warrants Torchwood’s attention. Unfortunately, sometimes humans are just as brutal and insane as anything that comes from out there.” He cut his gaze skyward.

LaGuerta perched on the edge of the table and she caught Jack noticing the fit of her skirt across her thighs. “There’s something significant about the case that’s not in the file, Captain,” she began. “We’ve been keeping it as quiet as possible, to keep it out of the press. There are only a handful of people who know about it--the medical examiner, myself, the chief of police, and one or two people at UNIT. They’re the ones who suggested we try to get in touch with Torchwood.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, made a steeple of his index fingers and rested them against his lips. “All right,” he said, “I’m listening.”

Lt. LaGuerta clasped her hands on her lap and seemed not to know where to look. “I don’t know what to make of it; I’m not sure I even believe in this stuff--alien technology and all that.”

“I believe enough for both of us,” Jack said flatly. “Go on.”

“The victims of the Bay Harbor Butcher all share the same mark,” LaGuerta said.

“What, like a tattoo? Or a scar?”

“No, neither.” She stood up and paced the room again. “When the M.E. did the autopsies, she found an anomaly on the breastbone of every victim. There’s a mark, like a drawing--a symbol--but as far as the labs can tell, they’re. . .” She searched for a word. Leaning with her fingertips on the table, she gazed straight at Jack’s face and said, “They’re impossible.”

Jack snorted out a laugh, “Nothing’s impossible, Lieutenant.”

“They’re not drawn, they’re not tattooed, they weren’t carved with a tool. They’re just there. And only one of the victims even had an injury to his chest. These marks are under the flesh, right on the bone, like they were always there.”

“That does sound a bit impossible,” Jack conceded. “Can I see them? Do you have a photo?”

LaGuerta approached the conference room door. “No. No photos. We don’t want to risk this getting out. When we get our guy, he’ll be the only one to know about them. We’ve already had two crazies confess to these crimes, just for the attention.” She grabbed the door handle and swung it open. “Come with me, Captain. I’ll show you.”

Jack followed the lieutenant out of the conference room and among the cubicles and desks on the homicide division floor. As she passed a half-open door, she called back without looking, “You’re late, Dexter.”

“Sorry!” came a voice from the office. The door swung wider and out shambled a powerfully-built man with reddish brown hair. Jack veered off course and extended his arm for a handshake.

“Cap’n Jack Harkness,” He said. “Glad to make your acquaintance.” His smile was wide and his eyes twinkled.

Dexter looked taken aback, but shook Jack’s hand. “Dexter Morgan,” he said.

“Dexter is one of our forensic investigators,” Lt. LaGuerta offered, though she was already pressing the elevator button, across the room.

Jack kept hold of Dexter’s hand perhaps a moment too long, then dropped it. LaGuerta added, “Captain Harkness is consulting on the Bay Harbor Butcher case.”

Dexter eyed Jack with something like suspicion. “Consulting? Are you FBI?”

Jack shook his head, still beaming at Dexter, charm in full-effect. “No, no, nothing like that. I’m in law enforcement in the UK.” That didn’t really explain what he was doing at Miami Metro, but it was the only explanation Jack offered.

“Dexter, if you’re late again this month, I’m going to have to write something for your file,” LaGuerta said tersely.

Dexter maneuvered around Jack, stepping toward Lt. LaGuerta as he offered sheepishly, “I know, I get it. Sorry. Rita’s kids missed the bus, and Astor had this gigantic diorama--”

“No excuses, Dexter, just be at work on time. Captain?” LaGuerta stepped into the elevator and held down the “door open” button.

Jack clapped his hands together. “Right!” Turning back to Dexter, he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Dexter Morgan. Maybe we’ll have a chance to put our heads together before I’m off back to Blighty in a few days.”

Dexter’s face went through a quick series of expressions before settling on puzzled-but-friendly. “Sure,” he replied.

Vince Masuka, another forensics specialist, came along just then, carrying his empty coffee mug, and inserted himself between Dexter and Jack. “So you’ve met Morgan,” Masuka said casually. “Best blood pattern analyst around. You should see his reports on the Bay Harbor Butcher crime scenes; they read like poetry.”

Jack’s eyebrow went up, “Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah,” answered Masuka, “Dexter’s the master.”

Just then, Jack thought he saw something in Dexter’s face that looked like a wince, and Dexter rubbed his forehead with two fingers.

“You all right?” Jack asked, dipping his face toward Dexter’s with a look of concern.

“Just a headache,” Dexter replied. “You know how it is.”

“Say no more,” Jack said, “Rough night. I get it. Too many mojitos.”

Dexter managed a half-smile. “Something like that,” he said.

Jack strode into the elevator with Lt. LaGuerta and the doors slid closed.

“How ‘bout that guy,” Vince offered, gesturing with his empty coffee mug toward the elevator.

Dexter replied, “He was. . .something. I didn’t know they made guys like him outside of Mexican Telenovelas. With those. . .teeth.” Dexter pointed vaguely to his own head. “And that hair.”

Vince looked defensive. “I thought he was OK. He’s got a shitload of. . .whaddayacallit. .. charisma.”

“And what’s with that coat? Is he a pirate?”

Dexter stepped into his office and shut the door, leaving Masuka standing in the middle of the floor holding his empty mug.

“I kind of liked the coat,” he said, to no one in particular. He shrugged.


	4. IV.

The Medical Examiner’s office was in the basement of a nearby hospital, beside the morgue. The office itself was quite small--just a desk with a years-old computer, a wobbly swivel chair, and two tall file cabinets--but three people now stood within it, the door closed behind them, the blinds on its small window drawn tightly shut. The bottom drawer of one cabinet was kept locked, and Jack noticed the M.E. kept the key not on a key ring, but on the lanyard around her neck, with her work ID. After greetings were exchanged, Lt. LaGuerta had asked the medical examiner, Dr. Cohn, to show Captain Harkness the anomalies from the Bay Harbor Butcher case.

With gloved hands, the doctor laid out a row of small, flat bones on her desk in front of the computer’s keyboard.

“I’m sure Lt. LaGuerta told you that these marks are anomalous not only because we can’t decipher them, but also because we cannot identify the tool used to make them,” the doctor said as she worked. “If one was used at all.”

There were at least a dozen of them, and when Jack leaned over to get a closer look, he hummed softly and bit his lip. “Such a small bone,” he mused quietly, “To protect a human heart.”

Lt. LaGuerta looked at him hopefully. “Do you recognize the symbol?”

“Not specifically, no,” Jack replied. “But I recognize the language.”

“It’s a language?” LaGuerta asked in a disbelieving tone. She looked from the bones to Jack’s face, then at the bones again. “What kind of language?”

“An ancient one,” Jack said. “And not from this planet.” He ran one finger over the surface of the first breastbone, and was surprised to find that although the symbol appeared carved into the bone’s surface, it felt completely smooth.  
Dr. Cohn looked thunderstruck.

“Lucky for you all,” he said, brightening, “I know someone who can translate it.”

“And who’s that?” LaGuerta asked, still looking skeptical.

Jack snatched up a bone and tossed it straight up, grabbing it from the air with a flourish and depositing it in an interior pocket of his coat.

“To translate an ancient alien language,” he said, “You go to an ancient alien.” He oozed charm and confidence, even as he said, “If only I can find him.”


	5. V.

The Doctor flashed his psychic-paper credentials at the front desk of the Miami Metro Police building--”John Smith, Scotland Yard”--and made his way upstairs to the Homicide Division.

As the elevator doors slid open, the first thing to catch The Doctor’s eye was long, ginger hair. He cocked an eyebrow.

“What? Donna?” he said under his breath, but just loud enough to catch the attention of the owner of the ginger hair, who glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice and face conveyed an overall skeptical sneer.

The Doctor shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, I hope so,” he said. He flashed a warm smile. “And you are. . .?”

“Deb Morgan.” She leaned back in her chair, revealing her police badge and ID hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She scrutinized the Doctor, her eyes traveling from the tip of his hair to the toe of his trainers. “Are you with that other one? Harkness.” The sneering tone and affect didn’t change.

The Doctor nodded, “Yeah, that’s me. With Captain Harkness.” He glanced around. “Where is he?”

“Out with the lieutenant, I think. The file’s still on the table in the conference room.” She motioned toward the open door. “You can have a look if you want, but I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

The Doctor walked toward the conference room, replying, “That’s fine. I can wait.” A few people glanced up from their desks as he passed, giving him puzzled looks, and he nodded greetings. Shutting the door behind him, he slid into a chair. Before him sat a pile nearly a foot high: three manilla folders with papers nearly spilling out of them. The Doctor opened the top one and began reading the notes and forms as quickly as he could.

“Captain Jack, you impossible creature,” he muttered to himself, “What has this got to do with you?” More papers passed through his hands: stacks of gory crime scene photos; coroner’s reports; maps; cell phone tower activity reports; DNA test results. . .

“Something. . .” The Doctor breathed, sliding his eyeglasses into place, “Something’s missing. What? What is it?” In his mind’s eye he saw the whole mess of the file all at once, shifting and realigning it so that connections were drawn between disparate pages and photos, seemingly unrelated details coalescing into a story that unfolded in his brain like a novel, or a dream, with flashbacks and blurry bits and snatches of dialog and--

“Oh, yes!” he gasped at last. “Yes yes NO!” For a moment, he was absolutely still, listening to the sounds of the office outside him, muffled by the closed door. “No. There’s something they’re not telling me.” He started to stuff all the papers back into the folders, examining each quickly as he did so. “What is it what is it?”

The Doctor opened his newspaper--a tabloid style one--to the center page, and lay the file inside it. Closing the front pages back over it, he rose and tucked it beneath his arm.

Storming toward the elevators, he nodded again to the bobbing heads of the cops at their desks and explained, “Right. Can’t wait for Captain Harkness, after all.” He jabbed the elevator button.

“Should I tell him you were here?” Deb Morgan asked, rising from her chair.

“No, no, it’s fine,” The Doctor assured her. “I’m, ah, on my way to see him now. Thanks, though.” The elevator made a soft pinging noise, and the doors slid open. The Doctor stepped inside, and as he pressed the button for the lobby, he shot Deb Morgan another of his dimpley grins and advised her, “You should smile more. Pretty girl like you.”

The ginger-haired detective crossed her arms as if annoyed, but also gazed at the floor, the corners of her mouth turning up despite herself.

“That’s more like it,” The Doctor said, and the elevator doors glided closed.


	6. VI.

Having charmed Lt. LaGuerta and the coroner into excusing him to use the office computer on his own, Captain Jack Harkness contacted his colleagues at Torchwood.

“You look a bit rubbish, Jack,” Gwen Cooper announced matter-of-factly. The computer Jack was using was hardly state of the art, and the video feed was jerky and out of sync. “I’ll try to update the machine a bit from this end. . .” Gwen clicked and typed a bit on her far-superior setup at the Hub, paused a moment, and said, “Aha. There you are.” Captain Jack’s image was suddenly high-def and real-time.

Jack said, “I’ve found something I think the Doctor needs to see.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows, “Oh, your famous Doctor, is it? Suppose there’s a chance he may stop to refuel at the Rift before long, but that’s a bit chancey. You have some idea of how to find him?”

Jack frowned, “Not a reliable way. But.” He dug the breastbone he’d swiped out of his coat pocket. “Can you see this?” He held it up to the camera.

“Yes, perfectly,” Gwen replied.

“Good. Take a picture and save it. We’re going to send it out to the whole universe and hope it lands with the Doctor.”

Gwen did as Jack said, nearly instantly creating an image-file that showed the bone in three dimensions, from several angles, and included a close-up of the strange, circular symbols on it.

“Any other message with it?” Gwen asked.

“Twenty-six murder victims bear this mark,” Jack replied. “We need the Doctor to translate it. He’s the only one who can.” Jack nestled the bone back into his pocket. “Send it on every frequency, to every time period, forward and back. I just hope he’s listening.”


	7. VII.

With Rita and the kids at her mother’s for dinner, Dexter had the whole evening to finish preparations in the kill-room. He worked methodically, the process well-choreographed and rehearsed. After an hour of taping down plastic sheeting, testing straps, and fixing lights, he was ready to lay out his tools--the finishing touch.

The instant his hand touched his best scalpel, though, the throb in his head roared, pounding in his ears and stabbing at the backs of his eyes. He gasped, grabbed his head, dropped to his knee. Behind his closed eyes he saw a series of stilted images, blurred at the edges, too dim or too bright, none comfortable to look at but impossible to get away from. Long red hair--not Deb’s. A slim man in a long coat. A room that looked like a living thing, like a sea creature, but wheezing and flashing. A blue-black swirling that gave him a sense of dread like he had never experienced before, a crushing feeling in his chest--was it despair? Was he afraid? And the rush and thud in his ears, the booming in his head--

It all stopped.

Dexter lay on the floor, his cheek pressed to the cool plastic sheeting. His chest heaved with breath he could not seem to catch; he was sweating all over.

Then, something he’d never heard before: a voice in his head saying, “Go. Go now. It’s time. Don’t wait. GO!”

He sat up quickly, looked around. His urge to kill--his “dark passenger”--had never spoken before. Was it trying to drive? He felt frantic and confused.

“GO NOW!” the voice boomed in his head, in his ears, all at once.

Dexter leapt to his feet, steadied himself, but instantly: the thundering in his head, and darkness.


	8. VIII.

***

  


The Doctor and Donna huddled at a corner table in a semi-busy restaurant downtown, with the Bay Harbor Butcher file spread between them. Donna picked up a crime-scene photo, glanced at it, and quickly stuffed it back into a folder.

  


“Right! I’ll never eat again, thank you.”

  


The Doctor wore a distracted expression Donna had come to know quite well.

  


“What does this have to do with you, though?” she asked, gesturing to the scramble of paper on the table. She lowered her voice, leaning in close, “Is the serial killer an alien?”

  


“I don’t know. Maybe,” was the Doctor’s reply. Then he pursed his lips and said, “No. Sadly this all seems very human.”

  


“Barely human,” Donna corrected. “I don’t want to share my human status with someone who can do--” she yanked out a grisly photograph, the torso of a man in a half-open plastic bag--”That. No human in their right mind could ever do that to a person; it’s beyond mad.”

  


“Not in their right mind, no,” the Doctor agreed, but his voice indicated his thoughts were drifting. “Truth is, I’m not sure what this has to do with me, either. But there’s something missing from this file, Donna, something important. It’s like: it’s a big jigsaw puzzle, and I’ve got it almost completed, but there’s a very important batch of missing pieces.”

  


Donna exclaimed, “Hate that! You do the whole puzzle--five hundred pieces!--and then you find out the last few are missing.” She hmphed and sat back, shaking her head, then added dreamily, “All sky.”

  


The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

  


“The missing pieces,” Donna replied. “They’re always pieces of the sky.”

  


The Doctor started cramming the file back together, and stood up. “You brilliant woman, you,” he said, “The sky is exactly where we should look. More specifically, it’s where the TARDIS should look.” He started out of the restaurant before Donna could even gather her bag and toss a rumpled bill on the table to pay for her mostly-uneaten dinner. By the time she caught him, he was striding up the sidewalk toward the Botanical Gardens.

  


“We’ll feed the information we do have into the TARDIS, send it out to the whole universe, all of the knowledge of Time and Space, and see if it won’t fill in those missing pieces of sky.”

  


The Doctor sonic’ed the bolt on the enormous iron gate and they slipped into the garden, then wound their way down the mossy walkway to the TARDIS.

  


“But what then?” Donna asked. “Is that going to tell us who the killer is? Or how to catch him? You’re not going to try to catch him, are you, Doctor? Leave it to the police--you could get hurt.”

  


The Doctor fitted his key into the door lock and pushed open the door. “Let’s just wait and see the finished picture.”


	9. IX.

***

  


Back at Miami Metro, Lt. LaGuerta was talking fast, clearly embarrassed, though she tried to make it sound like anger.

  


“I don’t know what could have happened to the file, Captain,” she said, “Someone must have--I don’t know--moved it?” She addressed the office at large, standing in the middle of the room with her feet planted and shoulders squared in a way that conveyed she meant business. “This is completely unacceptable. Where is the Bay Harbor Butcher file? Batista, would you call down to storage and see if someone dropped it off to be archived?”

  


Jack put a reassuring hand on her arm, “Really, Lieutenant, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. About time to call it a day, anyhow.”

  


“Find that file, people,” LaGuerta boomed. “Unacceptable.”

  


Jack’s voice was a soothing near-purr. “Really. Don’t worry about it. What say I take you to dinner? Hm?” Out came the smile.

  


LaGuerta softened a little, and her face relaxed. “I just can’t imagine what happened to the file. This is crazy,” she shook her head. “And I’m really so sorry, but I can’t have dinner with you; I’ve got a presentation to some special committee of the mayor’s.”

  


“Rain check, then,” Jack said. He glanced sidelong toward Deb Morgan, who stood nearby, rifling through a tall filing cabinet in a vain search for the missing file. “How about you? Dinner?”

  


Deb’s expression leaned toward her standard sneer, but almost immediately melted. “Sorry. Got a date.” She slammed the cabinet drawer shut. “But maybe tomorrow.”

  


Jack winked. “For sure.”

  


“I’m free for dinner,” piped up Vince Masuka, in a tone not unlike surprise.

  


“Masuka, you’re with me,” LaGuerta said, and began to gather her briefcase and cardigan sweater.

  


“Rain check, then,” Masuka said, still sounding surprised.

  


Jack nodded. “Rain check.”


	10. X.

***

  


The Doctor fed page after page of the Bay Harbor Butcher file into a slot under the center console of the TARDIS.

  


“Looks like a paper shredder,” commented Donna.

  


The Doctor looked stricken, “Oh no! Oh no no no!” he cried.

  


“No! Way!” Donna exclaimed. “Is it a paper shredder?”

  


Mischief danced across the Doctor’s face. “Nah, course not! It’s a bio-intelligent data processing unit.”

  


Donna mugged exasperation.

  


“Had you going a minute, though.”

  


The video monitor was ever-changing, very active, but everything it showed was in Gallifreyan script--circles and dots, swirls within swirls, and while Donna thought it very pretty and Picasso, she could not read it.

  


The Doctor slid on his spectacles and studied the changing symbols on the screen. “Oh, see, there’s something I hadn’t noticed,” he said, pointing at the monitor, “The killer’s ginger.”

  


“Shut up,” Donna said, “You’re winding me up.”

  


“No, really. See for yourself.” He turned the monitor toward her, but it was just dots of spiralling gibberish, as far as she could tell. The Doctor shifted the monitor back toward himself. “Ah, there it goes. Out to the universe, looking for those missing pieces of sky.”

  


“Will it take long?” Donna asked.

  


“Could do,” the Doctor admitted with a shrug. “Could take so long it’s too late to save the next victim.” A single Gallifreyan notation was displayed on the monitor. Where seconds before it had been scrolling through symbols so quickly they were nearly a blur, now it was static and unchanging.

  


“Or it could take no time at all,” the Doctor said. “But this isn’t something the TARDIS went and retrieved. . .this is being sent.” He examined a smaller readout in the corner of the screen. “It’s being sent absolutely everywhere.”

  


“Who’s sending it?”

  


“That I don’t know. It’s like it’s being sent from everywhere, too. It’s on every wavelength, at every time, past, present and future. Someone wanted to make sure I saw it. It’s not our missing pieces of sky, but it’s something.”

  


“What does it say, Doctor?” Donna asked. To her, the symbol resembled a child’s line drawing of a solar system, but with too many planets and moons, quite possibly more than one sun, and with the orbits shown in thin lines bent into oblongs and rounds, hundreds of them, all of it bound inside a perfect circle.

  


“Well, there’s a date,” the Doctor said slowly, his brow knitted. “Today’s date, as a matter of fact. And a sort of. . .well, it’s like an address.”

  


“An address? Like the killer’s home address?” Donna asked, astonished. “Ding-dong, Mr. Murderer, you’re under arrest. The TARDIS told us you live right on that dot there,” she touched a particular circle in the tangle of Gallifreyan script on the screen.

  


“No probably not,” answered the Doctor. “Well, definitely not that dot there, anyway; that just says ‘an.’ But either way, it’s not where the killer usually is; it’s where he’s going to be.”

  


Donna squinted at the dot, trying to find ‘an’ in it.

  


The Doctor reached for his long coat and started to slip his arms into it. “It’s where he’s going to be in about ten minutes, actually.”

  


Donna made a move to follow.

  


He turned and held up his hand to stop her. “You stay here. It’s too dangerous. Like you said, this person is not in his right mind; he’s mad. I won’t have you near him.”

  


“I’m going with you,” Donna insisted.

  


“I’m sorry, Donna, but you’re not. Stay here in the TARDIS.”

  


“But what if something happens to you?” Donna exclaimed. “You said yourself it’s dangerous. He’s mad. You shouldn’t be alone. At least phone the police.”

  


“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  


With that, the Doctor whirled on his heel and strode out of the TARDIS, the thin wooden door banging behind him. Donna studied the Gallifreyan symbol again, trying to imagine how the Doctor made sense of it. As her gaze followed a particular line around and through tiny circles and half-moons, the symbol started to flicker and pulsate, settling into a rythymic blinking pattern.

  


“What’s that mean? What’s it doing?” Donna asked, looking around as if to point it out to the Doctor. The whole of the TARDIS seemed to thrum in time with the pulsations, a low vibration that Donna could feel in her body as well as hear. “OK, this is freaky,” she said. Then, loudly: “Doctor?!”

  


Donna sprinted for the door, and every light in the TARDIS was now dimming and brightening in time with the pattern. She yanked the door open and flew out of the TARDIS at a dead run.

  


She hadn’t gone but few steps into the darkening evening when someone grabbed her from behind in a tight bear hug, one gloved hand over her mouth before she could scream. She was dragged into the thicket of exotic greenery.


	11. XI.

***

  


The Doctor sprinted away from downtown, down the boardwalk by the beach, to a place where the streetlights were lit but all the houses were dark. Nearly every house had a For Sale sign posted in front of it. Some had shattered or boarded-up windows. Most of the yards had been left to grow wild and invasive vines threatened to obscure whole exterior walls. The Doctor slowed to a walk and squinted at the doors of each house as he passed, looking for house numbers.

  


At last he came upon the one he wanted, and he crept up the drive, then ducked around to the back of the house. There was a swimming pool there--one of the modern ones surrounded by fake rocks and a visual illusion that the far edge of the pool bled right into the ocean beyond. The lights inside the pool were on, their upward glow through murky water casting weird, shimmering shadows on the rear wall of the house. As the Doctor glanced around, a sudden bright flash caught his eye--the reflection of something on the stone step that lead up to double glass doors. He moved to it and picked up a woman’s ring set with a single, clear stone. A diamond? The Doctor held it up and squinted through it.

  


It wasn’t a diamond, though to a human eye it would have looked to be one. But the Doctor could see into the heart of it, to spot a tiny flaw that was not a flaw at all. It was a homing device. He aimed his sonic screwdriver at it, disabled it by scrambling the signal. It wouldn’t do permanent damage, but the homing device would be busy untangling itself for quite a while yet. He dropped the ring into his pocket and reached for the elaborate, goldtone door latch.

  


With a gentle push downward, the door opened.


	12. XII.

***

  


Dexter was standing over his work table, looking into the face of an unconscious woman. She was fastened tightly to the table in the usual way, with yards and yards of clear plastic holding down her legs, torso, and arms. Plastic was wrapped around her forehead to keep her head still, leaving just her face exposed. An IV stand nearby dripped anesthetic into a vein in one hand.

  


Dexter had no idea how she’d gotten here, or who she was.

  


Did he even want to kill her?

  


The headache was minor now, but still pulsing in his forehead and the back of his neck, a steady annoyance he could not move away from or quiet. It was just distracting enough to make thinking difficult, and what he needed to do right now was think. Think!

  


But no matter how he tried, he could not remember taking this woman. He did not recall fixing her to the table. He had his code: he could only kill Very Bad people. But was she Very Bad? She was pale and pretty, with a scar under her eye and a small, pointed chin. Her fingers were long and slim. Having laid her jewelry on a tray nearby, Dexter examined it for engravings, a date, anything. There was an elaborate locket carved with circles and dots, which Dexter could not open. There was a wide gold band, probably a wedding ring, which was etched inside with two sets of initials, “HS” and “LS,” and one other word: “Remember.”

  


This told him nothing.

  


He crossed back to the table and leaned over the woman, looking again at her face. “Who are you?” he asked quietly. Then, louder, demanding, “Who are you?” Then shouting, “Who are you?!”

  


In frustration, Dexter punched straight down at the table beside her head. The pain in his hand was exquisite. He cradled the fist in his other arm. “Dammit, how did you get here?!” he growled.

  


Then the thrumming in his head like a burst of booming gunfire, and beyond it the voice from before, commanding, “Just kill her. Do it now!”

  


Dexter slapped the side of his head. “What are you?!” he cried, “Get out of my head! You are not in control here.”

  


His head pounded in that same relentless rhythm, like being hit with a hammer again and again. “Oh, but I am!” the voice replied, then laughed madly for a moment before shouting in a voice as loud as God, “KILL HER NOW!”

  


Desperate to silence the pounding and the voice, Dexter lurched for his tray of tools, lifting up an impossibly polished meat cleaver. He raised it high in the air above the woman, could clearly imagine it slamming down through her slender neck. In reality, he waited. The blade hung in the air.

  


“Tell me who she is!” Dexter demanded.

  


The voice was even, controlled. “Oh, but you’re useless. I’ll do it myself.”

  


Impossibly loud, unbearably painful, then dark.


	13. XIII.

***

  


Donna strained to see in the moonlight and the glow of a distant streetlight who it was that had caught her and dragged her through the bushes into a small park lined with low flower beds and benches.

  


“Don’t hurt me,” she begged, having been left sitting in the damp grass on her bottom. The man, pacing nearby, passed through a shaft of streetlight and she saw the back of his head.

  


Not ginger. Not the killer. Or maybe the Doctor really was just winding her up and the killer was not ginger. In which case, maybe the killer after all. But.

  


“I know that coat,” she said. “In the newspaper today. You’re that--whatsit--paranormal investigator.”

  


“Captain Jack Harkness,” he muttered by way of introduction, still pacing. “Sorry about that.” He offered a hand and help Donna pull herself to her feet.

  


“You’re ‘sorry about that,’ are you?” Donna began to rail, “You kidnap and terrify me, then toss me on the ground, and you’re ‘sorry about that?’ Well you know what, Mister?” Jack turned and she caught a glimpse of his improbably handsome face. Her demeanor shifted immediately. “That’s all right. No harm done. I’m Donna. Donna Noble.”

  


“Nice to meet you, Donna Noble. You’re traveling with the Doctor?”

  


“You’ve met him?” she asked. “He didn’t mention that earlier. You know your picture’s on the flipping front page?”

  


Jack shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Where’s the Doctor now?”

  


Donna had nearly forgotten that the Doctor had rushed off into danger. “He’s gone to find a serial killer!” she said, in a can-you-beat-that? tone of voice. “There was this symbol, in the TARDIS. Gallifreyan script--d’you know it?”

  


“Very little, actually,” Jack said, but he looked pleased. “But the Doctor got the message.”

  


“That was you? Sending that transmission everywhere?”

  


“Well, with help from my team.” Jack motioned for her to follow, and began walking back toward the TARDIS. “Where did he go?”

  


Donna scurried alongside him. “I don’t know! He said there was today’s date, and an address. But he didn’t say where it was, and he wouldn’t let me go with him.”

  


They came upon the TARDIS and Jack pushed open the door. The flashing lights and thrumming vibration had stopped. They approached the monitor on the center console, which still displayed the symbol Donna and the Doctor had seen earlier, steadily lit, no longer flashing.

  


Jack started to flip levers and push a few buttons.

  


“Oi, what are you doing?” Donna demanded, then scolded, “Don’t touch that, please.”

  


The video monitor flickered and suddenly there appeared the face of a woman with huge,, Japanese-cartoon eyes, standing in what looked like a public bathroom in the back of a TV/stereo store.

  


“Hello, Jack,” she said. “Did your famous Doctor get our message?”

  


Donna ducked her head under Jack’s arm so she could get a better look. “Who are you?” she demanded. “How do you know the Doctor?”

  


The woman on the screen looked amused. “Oh, hello.”

  


“Donna Noble, Gwen Cooper. She’s my second at Torchwood.”

  


Donna looked grim, straightening up but still leaning close to Jack so that Gwen could see her on the video screen. “Torchwood? Is that some kind of ghost-hunting outfit?”

  


Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No, not exactly. What gave you that idea?”

  


“The newspaper said you were a paranormal investigator.”

  


Gwen cut in, “We investigate alien technology, mostly.”

  


“So this Bay Harbor Butcher is an alien!” Donna surmised.

  


“What are you doing in the newspaper, Jack?”

  


“Nevermind that now,” Jack said authoritatively. “Gwen, that symbol--the message we sent--” He maneuvered a dial and pressed a button, and the symbol appeared in the corner of the screen. “We need to try to translate it, and fast. Put it through every piece of translation software we have, and cross-reference. It might help that we know it contains today’s date, so look for numbers. Donna. Didn’t you say there was an address?”

  


“Actually, the Doctor said it was like an address,” she corrected. “And it’s definitely not this dot here.” She pointed to the dot she had joked about earlier. “That just says, ‘an.’”

  


“Got that, Gwen?” Jack asked. “There’s an ‘an’ for you, and if it’s ‘like’ an address. . .probably coordinates. More numbers to look for.”

  


“Got it. I’ll have Ianto get to work on the translation.”

  


“Fast as you can.”

  


Jack spun away from the center console of the TARDIS and reached inside his coat, checking his holster.

  


“Does the Doctor have a weapon?” He asked, though his face looked doubtful.

  


“No, nothing,” Donna replied mournfully. “When he left he said the killer would be at that address--or whatever--in a few minutes.”

  


“When was that?”

  


“Just before you showed up.”

  


Jack paced. On the video screen, another face had appeared, a fastidiously-dressed man with an uptight look. Donna thought even his hair looked clenched.

  


“Ianto, anything?”

  


“There’s a lock on the numeral 7, sir. Cross-referencing will take a few minutes; hopefully we’ll see a pattern emerge. That ‘an’ helped, too.” The man glanced away from his screen into the camera. “Think you’ll be back soon, sir?” he asked.

  


Jack’s face softened and he said, “Fast as I can.”

  


Donna tilted her head and a look of understanding dawned across her face. “Ahh,” she said quietly. Then louder, “When you’re done flirting, Captain Harkness. . .”

  


He flashed a grin at her, “Call me Jack.”

  


“The Doctor?” Donna reminded him. She made a running motion with two fingers in the air. “Running to meet a man who’s killed twenty-something people?”

  


The straight-laced man on the monitor’s eyes widened. “Here it comes, sir. It’s not fully translated, but it should be enough to get you there.”

  


Across the bottom of the screen came a series of numbers that Donna could not decipher. Jack flipped open a wide leather band on his wrist to reveal a tiny computer into which he read the coordinates. He pushed two buttons, then reached for Donna’s hand, pulling her in to encircle her in his massive arms. The fabric of his coat was soft against her cheek; she didn’t protest.

  


“Here we go,” Jack announced. And they both vanished from the TARDIS.


	14. XIV.

***

  


The Doctor slipped into the dark house through the open French doors, looking about him to find a home empty of furniture, as if it had never been lived in. A few snatches of graffitti were visible on the walls there in the dining room, and a couple of the kitchen cabinets he could see over the breakfast bar were hanging open, though empty. He took a couple of slow, careful steps, then heard a man shouting--muffled, as if through a closed door, maybe two closed doors--and quickly but quietly moved toward the direction of the sound.

  


He made his way through the living room and down the central hallway, along which were several open doors--a bathroom, a couple of bedrooms. At the far end of the hallway, one door was firmly closed. The Doctor crept toward it, tried the knob, and found that it turned with ease; the door drifted open with only a susurrous whisper as it brushed along the plush carpet. The room was empty: bare windows; a closet with mirrored doors half open; one lonely, wire hanger visible on the clothing rod within. On the opposite wall, a marble-tiled bathroom with no door at all.

  


One door was closed, though, and as the Doctor tiptoed across the room, he heard another shout, much more clearly this time, “Tell me who she is!”

  


The Doctor’s hand reached for the doorknob, and he heard angry muttering, couldn’t make out the words. He took a deep breath and flung the door open.

  


He had to push against slight resistance, a curtain of some sort partially blocked the door. In a single instant he took in the room--garish lighting overheard, plastic tarps everywhere, a man dressed like a surgeon in sterile clothes standing over a makeshift operating table. High above his head he held a huge, wide blade like a hatchet, glinting reflected light.

  


With all his might, the Doctor pounced on the man, shoving him sideways to the floor; the weapon sailed out of the man’s hand and landed in a far corner of the room.

  


“Stop!” the Doctor shouted. He glanced at a small table off to one side, surgical instruments and power tools lined up neatly upon it. He swung his arm widely and knocked the whole lot of it to the floor, scattering it. “This ends now,” The Doctor said, though his mind was still racing through an almost-infinite web of scenarios, trying to find the one that really did end this now, with no one dead, himself included.

  


The man on the floor began to gather himself up, his palms flat on the floor, shoulders hunched and head hanging down. “Ah,” the man said flatly, shaking his head slowly as he raised his gaze toward the Doctor, who stood with feet planted far apart, his body heaving in time with heavy breaths. The man said, “Look who’s here.”

  


He looked the Doctor square in the face and in a voice oozing contempt, as if the very word left a vile taste in his mouth, sneered, “ _You_.”

  


“Who are you?” the Doctor asked, not daring to glance away. The man was on the floor for the moment, but he was taller than the Doctor, sturdier, with muscular arms..

  


“You’re always _showing up_ , just to get in my way,” the man intoned, ignoring the Doctor’s question. “You’re always _spoiling_ everything.”

  


“I’m not the police,” the Doctor said, “I can help you.”

  


The man’s eyes never left the Doctor’s, but he slowly shook his head from side to side. “I know who you are. And I know how much you hate to hear it, but You. Can’t. Help. Me.”

  


“I can.”

  


“You would NEVER!” the man roared. His gaze was wild, his eyes practically spiralling in their sockets. He lifted one hand from the floor and pointed hard at his own face, at his eyes. “Look at me,” he demanded. “You know me. LOOK!”

  


The Doctor took a step forward and stooped to look more closely at the man’s eyes.

  


“You’re mad,” the Doctor nearly whispered, “You’re sick. But I can help you.”

  


“Stop saying that! LOOK AT ME!” The man grabbed the Doctor by the jaw and drew him closer, nearly nose to nose.

  


The Doctor looked into the man’s eyes and saw fury. A family. Physical pain. Elaborate lies. So much blood.  A dark desire blanketing all the rest of it. Behind all of that, though, something like a veil, and then: an infinite blue-black swirling and more stars than there could possibly be, and agony and despair and rage as big as the Universe.

  


He leapt backward as if struck in the chest.

  


“Can’t be. . .” he breathed.

  


The man’s face twisted itself into a smile made of hate and it was as if a ghost emerged from the body left behind in a heap on the floor. The filmy blur took shape quickly, turning opaque, then solid. A man in ragged black clothes, with tattered black boots and filthy hands, rumpled blonde hair. He narrowed his ferocious, amber-green eyes at the Doctor.

  


Quietly, evenly, the man said, “You know me, Doctor. And you would _never_ help me.”

  


The Doctor stepped backward and around the table, putting it between them. A glance at the man in the corner confirmed he was not dead--only unconscious--and a glance at the face of the woman chemically-asleep on the table refuted what the Doctor had feared.

  


“Not Donna,” he breathed with relief. He looked frantically back at the raggedy madman. “What is this? What are you doing?”

  


The madman’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “I needed to get rid of something,” he snarled, and roughly mashed the palm of his hand against the woman’s placid face. Smudges of filth were left on her cheek and lips when he removed it.

  


“And I wanted to see if you’d find me,” the madman went on. “Took you a while, though.” His hand trailed down the length of the woman’s plastic-wrapped body as he walked along the edge of the table. The Doctor scuttled sideways, maintaining as much distance as the tiny room allowed.

  


“Twenty-six of your precious humans so far,” said the man in the dark clothes, and his impossible, amber-green eyes twinkled when the Doctor visibly winced. “This one. . .” he said, gripping the woman’s ankles through the plastic and shouting up at her face as if she might hear him, “No one! Will miss!”

  


The Doctor looked stricken, but ventured, “Come with me now. Just leave this. I can--”

  


The man was on him in a second, their faces so close the Doctor felt the madman’s hot breath on his own lips. “Don’t say you can help me!” He wrapped his fists around the lapels of the Doctor’s coat and through gritted teeth he growled, “And I wouldn’t take anything from you that you would _willingly_ give.” With a furious grunt, he hurled the Doctor to the floor, muttering hollowly, “Where would be the fun in that?”

  


There was a high-pitched warping sound then, a flash too quick for most eyes to see, and there stood Captain Jack Harkness, Donna Noble still wrapped in his arms.

  


The madman threw up his hands, “Oh, now, what is this?” he exclaimed.

  


“Doctor!” Donna shouted.

  


Before another word was uttered or another movement made, the madman casually flicked his hand toward Jack and Donna, there was a white flash, and they both collapsed on the floor.

  


“Crowded in here. . .” the madman said, nudging the body of Dexter Morgan with the toe of a mud-caked boot mended again and again with electrical tape.

  


The Doctor scrambled toward Donna and Jack, checking them for signs of life.

  


“Oh, they’ll be fine,” the madman said dismissively, waving his hand in the air.

  


Donna’s legs lay across Jack’s; both of them were still and silent. The Doctor lifted Donna’s head into his lap and felt for a pulse in her neck. “Donna,” he urged. “Donna, wake up. It’s going to be OK.”

  


“Shut up,” said the madman contemptuously.

  


The Doctor set his jaw and looked up at the raggedy, blonde-haired man, challenging him.

  


“These are yours, then?” the madman asked, pseudo-pleasantly. “Guess we’ll just have to take them along.”

  


“Take them where?” demanded the Doctor, still stroking Donna’s cheek in an effort to rouse her.

  


“Oh, you’ll see,” grinned the madman. In almost a single motion, he braced his boot-clad foot against Jack’s throat and tangled up a handful of the Doctor’s hair in his fist, twisting the Doctor’s neck painfully and leaning close to his face as he said, “There’s something I’m just _dying_ to show you.”

  


In a nano-instant, all four of them were gone.

  



	15. XV.

***

  


When Dexter came to, the first thing he noticed was that the kill-room was a mess. His tools were scattered, the door was half-open. The next thing he noticed, as he rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, was that his headache was gone, and so was the voice in his head. He looked at his watch and figured he’d only been out for about 20 minutes. The last thing he could remember was raising the cleaver; after that he’d blacked out. He glanced at the IV pole: there was a small amount left in the bag that hung there; when it was fully empty the woman would start to wake up.

  


He stood over her again, searching her face for something he could recognize. Who was she? He couldn’t kill her if she didn’t deserve it. He stood upright again, dragging his palms down his face, trying to decide. He couldn’t get caught, that was the most important rule. And this woman wore a wedding ring. . .she might even have children. . .someone would miss her.

  


It seemed a shame to waste all the time he’d already spent making preparations, though.

  


He righted the instrument table and began to gather and arrange his tools. He found the  woman’s locket, but had to crawl the length and width of the room methodically, searching for the wedding ring. Near the corner of the island that was the base of his work table, he found a ring he hadn’t seen before, an engagement ring. Looking inside its gold band, he spotted the same two sets of initials, “LS,” and “HS,” and another single word. In a moment he located the wedding band, and fit them together so that the sentiment was complete: “Remember Utopia.”

  


“Whatever happened to ‘Love Always?’” Dexter mused, rising to place the rings and locket in a neat row beside his scalpels and picks.

  


With everything accounted for, he checked his watch once more. Rita wouldn’t be back from her mother’s for two more hours, at least. The IV was nearly empty now and the woman would soon wake up.

  


Dexter stood behind her head, reached for an impossibly sharp pair of surgical scissors, and gently stroked the scar on the woman’s cheek--just below her eye--with the tip of the blades. The voice in his head was new; maybe at last he was genuinely going crazy. The headaches and the blackouts and the voice had all arrived more or less together. Was he becoming schizophrenic? If that was the case, it was only a matter of time now before something went completely wrong, and he was caught. Madness spoke louder than calculating intellect most every time, Dexter knew. But for now, his head was quiet and there was no pain. His kill-room was in perfect order. He’d chosen this woman and brought her here. . .somehow. He snapped the blades of the scissors open and shut a few times, each time bringing them closer and closer to the woman’s cheek.

  


He had made his decision.


	16. XVI.

***

  


When they rematerialized, the raggedy madman was still standing on Jack’s throat, still gripping a fistful of the Doctor’s hair. Donna’s head rested on the Doctor’s thighs as he knelt. The madman placed his face against the Doctor’s and turned his head by his hair. “Have a look around. . .whaddaya think?”

  


The Doctor took in the scene, trying to discern where they were. It was a ballroom or a reception hall--huge--with highly-polished floors made of black metal that was slightly warm to the touch. Great pillars decorated with slit-eyed, many-horned gargoyles rose up along the walls to meet a ceiling intricately painted with a repeating pattern of silvery, thorny vines.

  


The madman shoved the Doctor’s head as he released his grip, stepping away from the three of them still heaped together. He strode about in a wide arc on the reflective floor. “Nice digs, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

  


The Doctor’s face remained stoic. He carefully slid Donna’s head from his lap and lay her gently down. He rose to his feet.

  


“This palace belonged to the Twin Emperors of Xthun,” the madman said. “Pity about the revolution.” He made a slashing motion across his chest, a pained expression on his face. Then he made his fingers into the shape of a pistol and aimed it at his temple, tossing his head to the side and crossing his eyes. Finally, he mimed slipping a noose around his neck and hanging from it. His tongue lolled.

  


“This is what you wanted me to see?” the Doctor asked in a quiet monotone. “You’re the new Emperor of Xthun.”

  


“Oh, no, there is no Emperor of Xthun. There’s no more Xthun, really. Most of the Xthunians were wiped out in the revolution, and the rest fled to Rasmus-4. Nicer climate. Not so much--” and he mimed the gun at his head again. “So it’s just little old ME,” the raggedy madman said, taking a few steps toward the Doctor. “And now, _you_.”

  


“Twin Emperors of the now-empty kingdom formerly called Xthun,” the Doctor mused.

  


The madman rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and grimaced. “Not hardly, Doctor!” With another giant step forward, they were toe to toe. “I told you before. You would never.”

  


The Doctor, in a tone of reasoning, quietly implored, “Master--”

  


“Oh, you said it!” The Master clapped his hands together giddily, then narrowed his eyes and leaned close to the Doctor’s face, speaking quietly into his ear. “You know how I love that.” The Doctor’s eyes closed for much longer than a blink.

  


The Master drew away and stalked the room once again, his hands clasped behind his back. “Ah, but I do have something to show you, Doctor,” he intoned. “I found something you lost.”

  


The Doctor sniffed, “Doubt it.”

  


The Master continued in a solicitous tone, “No, no, Doctor, I’m quite sure it belongs to you. And I’m quite sure you’re going to want it back, soon as you see it.”

  


The Doctor didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  


At the near end of the room, a few yards from where the Master was now standing, was a riser where the thrones were arranged. The Xthunians being a race of hyper-empathic asps, the thrones were long and narrow--more like chaise lounges--covered in shimmering, matte-black and silver fabric and with ornately turned legs. As the Doctor watched, the Master climbed a couple of steps to the riser and spread himself out on one of the lounges, feet crossed at the ankle, hands behind his head.

  


“You’ve seen perception filters, of course,” the Master said.

  


The Doctor replied only, “I have.”

  


The Master sat bolt upright, a gruesome glee coming across his face. “This one! This one is bloody brilliant! Watch this--you won’t believe it.” There was a table between the two lounges, and the Master flipped up its lid, reached inside, and jabbed at some buttons.

  


The space in front of the empty lounge shimmered and rippled, and then it was as if the very air was liquid, and it fell away like a curtain of heavy silk.

  


What it revealed was a woman. Upon her head was an elaborate headdress of woven ribbon, impossibly thin wire, and glittering jewels in shades of deepest green, purple, and black. Shimmering around her body was a gossamer robe of jewel-purple, like the darkest part of the sky at night, dotted with tiny black gems that cut the light into shards like stars. The robe was belted with a wide, jeweled, black sash. The dainty feet resting on the end of the long throne were laced into narrow black slippers that held them fully pointed and elongated--walking in them was impossible. But she would have been carried, anyhow, on a litter strewn with fragrant mirthblossoms and red-petaled Longing-For-Loves. Carried, the Doctor knew, because he knew what the woman was dressed for.

  


The Doctor’s eyes filled with tears, seeing her there with a regal dot of purple at the center of each lip, her eyes lined and shadowed with starry black. She had never looked so beautiful. He felt weak everywhere, and sank to his knees. “Oh!”

  


The cry escaped his lips despite himself, more quietly this time, “Oh!” He could not look away from her, afraid of another trick that would make her disappear. “Rose. . .”

  


His voice broke. He choked.

  


The Master leapt to his feet and announced loudly, “A Gallifreyan bride, my dear Lord Doctor! Did you _ever think_ you’d live to see another one?” The Master lifted Rose’s slippered feet into his lap as he slid onto the lounge beside her. “Dress for the job you want, I always say!” the Master sneered, then let out an awful, braying laugh.

  


“Get your hands off her!” the Doctor shouted. “Don’t you touch her!” But as he scrambled toward the Master, his way was blocked by some kind of shield-wall. He tried the sonic screwdriver; it made no difference.

  


The Master’s hand slid up Rose’s calf, disappearing under the hem of her filmy gown.

  


The Doctor studied Rose’s face, her eyes. She was conscious but looked dreamy--lost. She did not move to fight against the Master’s rough, dirt-smudged hands.

  


“I said don’t touch her! Rose! Rose, can you hear me?” the Doctor turned toward the Master. “What have you done to her?”

  


The Master patted Rose’s leg soundly--four rapid-fire slaps--and said, “Don’t worry, she’s fine. She can hear you, see you, all of it.” He made his face droop. “She’s just so tired. She had a difficult journey.”

  


The Master moved to sit on the top step, in front of Rose.

  


“How did you--” the Doctor began, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “Where did you find her? How did you bring her here?”

  


“Ah, Doctor, I can’t give away all my trade secrets.” The Master jutted his chin a bit.

  


“She was safe. In a sealed-off parallel universe. It’s impossible that she’s here,” the Doctor protested. “There was no way back.”

  


The Master shook his head, slowly. “You know the way back, Doctor. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  


The Doctor glanced at Rose. Her gaze drifted to finally mesh with his and he could see beyond the blankness there, could see the real Rose, distantly, through the fog. She wasn’t afraid now, but she had been.

  


“You didn’t. . .” the Doctor said, through clenched teeth. The idea of it was too horrible.

  


The Master clasped his hands together. “Ah, but I did. Someone left some teensy-tiny cracks in the breach, and I found one. I punched through it--” the Master jabbed upward at the air, “--And I _grabbed_ her, and I _yanked_ her back--”

  


“Through the Void,” the Doctor said quietly, though it pained him to do so.

  


“Through the VOID!” the Master shouted, a deranged smile on his lips. “Through Hell. The Howling.” He jumped up and ran to stand beside Rose, grabbing her by the chin and showing the Doctor angry, red, scratches--like claw-marks--on her neck. He raised one sleeve of her robes and revealed more. “An apt place for your Little Bad Wolf, Doctor--the Howling. And she put up a HELL of a fight!” he shouted, tugging down the neck of his shirt to show the Doctor scratches on his own chest, not as deep as the ones on Rose, but wilder.

  


“I dragged her back. Across the Void,” the Master pronounced. Meaningfully, he added, “For you.”

  


The Doctor shook his head. “You didn’t do this for me. You’re doing this TO me. What are you up to?” He tried again to rush the Master but met with the invisible resistance. “Take down this shield,” the Doctor demanded.

  


Just then, Jack stirred and started to sit up.

  


“Oh, these two again,” the Master sighed in exasperation. “You really shouldn’t pick up so many hitchhikers, Doctor.” With another casual flick of the Master’s hand, and a quick white flash, Jack fell back into unconsciousness.

  


“Stop that!” the Doctor shouted.

  


The Master made his way down the steps; as he passed through the shield, the air around him shimmered yellow-green, then settled. He stood near the Doctor, face to face, and shouted at him, “YOU! Don’t tell _me_ what to do! Attend carefully, Doctor,” the Master snarled, taking another step closer. “It’s time.”

  


The Doctor remained silent but did not break the Master’s gaze.

  


“Time to make a choice.”

  


The Master stepped back and gestured widely. “The empty kingdom formerly known as Xthun. Perfectly nice planet, just a bit burnt around the edges. All its surviving inhabitants are creating a New Xthun on Rasmus-4. They won’t be back.”

  


He bowed deeply to the Doctor, rolling his hand in the air. “My gift to you.”

  


The Doctor paused a moment before he said, “You said it’s time to make a choice.”

  


The Master stood upright again and said, “Indeed, I did say that.” He strode across the polished floor to where Jack and Donna lay, and began slapping their faces and tugging their clothes. “Wake up, you! You’re going to want to see this.” There was a sound--a static-electric crackle--and a quick glow of white light from the Master’s palms as he pushed and pulled at them.

  


Donna and Jack roused slowly, as if moving through water, and as they rose to sit upright, they carried the same dreamy, foggy look that Rose wore. Jack leaned back on his palms; Donna knelt with her hands in her lap. Neither spoke.

  


“Good enough!” the Master snapped, and crossed the room once more to stand near the Doctor.

  


“Time to make a choice, Doctor, and here it is: My gift to you--an empty planet. Building to suit. Perhaps you’d fancy a New Gallifrey.” The Master gestured toward Rose. “And--today only!--I’m throwing in a bride. BUT.”

  


The Doctor cocked an eyebrow.

  


“Of course, if you stay here with your lovely bride and your New Gallifrey, you can’t ever leave again.”

  


“Why not?” the Doctor asked.

  


“Can’t have you chasing after me,” the Master replied, then bit down on the words, “Always _spoiling_ everything.” He clasped his hands together. “We get you two crazy kids hitched up, maybe have a little coronation ceremony, and I’ll lock the door behind me as I leave.”

  


“What d’you mean, lock the door?”

  


“Time-lock the planet. What, did you think I didn’t know how to do that?” The Master grinned. “Lock it up tight. No one-- _me_ , for instance--gets in. And no one-- _you_ , for instance--gets out.”

  


“So the price for staying here, with her,” he glanced at Rose, who now wore the slightest, saddest smile in the world, “Is loosing you upon the Universe.”

  


The Master gave an exaggerated pout. “‘Fraid so,” he said. He jabbed a finger toward where Jack and Donna still sat on the floor. “Oh, and I’ll throw in these two. Good for the gene pool.” He made swirling motions with his hands. “Mix it up a bit.”

  


“What about this hypnosis,” the Doctor began, “Or drug, or whatever it is you’ve done to them?”

  


“It’s more of a glamour, actually,” the Master said. “Like a lovely, sweet coating over their consciousness. The Xthunians--did you know?--are a very fastidious race. They use this particular glamour to clear their personal atmospheres.”

  


The Doctor murmured, “Auras.”

  


“Yes, auras! Exactly!” the Master enthused, tapping the tip of his nose. “Well, no, not exactly. But close enough. They go deep into the glamour, and it undoes itself, layer by layer, sloughing off all the ugly build-up: curses, nightmares, daymares, psychic silt. . . Usually they do it during hibernation, but, as you can see,” he swung his arm around the room, “It’s useful any time.”

  


“So it wears off,” the Doctor said.

  


“Or I can take it off.” The Master moved to sling his arm around the Doctor’s shoulder. He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin. “Now, Doctor, back to the choice you have to make. Shall I get ready to go so you can start the honeymoon?”

  


The Doctor quietly replied, “Or you could stay.”

  


The Master stepped back.

  


The Doctor’s words tumbled out in a rush. “You’re a Time Lord. You should be part of a New Gallifrey. There’s only us left; we should be together.”

  


“Stop flirting.”

  


The Doctor’s eyes were pleading. With wide eyes ringed in desperation, he asked, “Aren’t you. . .lonely? You could stay.”

  


The Master coughed out a laugh, “What? Stay and play house with _you_? And these two human girls and. . .” he sneered at Jack, “Whatever he is. . .on a planet full of your mongrel children?” He looked disgusted. “Not on your very long life, Doctor.”

  


“Master,” the Doctor said urgently, “I can--” he caught himself. “We could do so much together. For the whole of the Universe. A New Gallifrey rising, the last of the Time Lords--”

  


“ENOUGH,” shouted the Master. With an extended fist, he punched through the shield-wall, which shattered into yellow-green dust and drifted to the floor. He grabbed Rose by the back of the neck and shoved her head forward.

  


“A CHOICE,” he yelled. “You stay and I leave. OR!” He knelt beside Rose now, and his hands went around her throat, not choking but threatening to tighten. “You leave, and she goes back into the Howling.”

  


The Doctor shook his head, just once. “I won’t make that choice.”

  


The Master released Rose’s neck and she slumped back onto the lounge. One of her hands lifted slightly, hovering for a moment in the air before settling back down. The Master rushed headlong into the Doctor, shoving him with both hands.

  


“Why are you so WEAK?!” he screamed. “MAKE A CHOICE!”

  


The Doctor stood his ground. “I won’t make that choice. You send her back where she was--she was safe!--and you and I will work this out.”

  


“There is nothing to work out,” the Master spat, his face red, amber-green eyes blazing furiously. “There is me, leaving. Or her,”--he lifted Rose up into his arms as if dancing with her--”Burning. And _screaming_. And bleeding and howling--” he let out a long, loud wolf’s howl. “Don’t you see, I’m _trying_ to give her to you! You want her. I know you want her!” All at once, The Master flung Rose’s limp body toward the steps. She seemed to try to get her feet under her, but the pointed slippers would not let her get her balance, and she tumbled.

  


The Doctor raced forward and caught her, sinking onto the steps as he cradled her in his arms. Rose stared up into his face, and it was as if she were trying to see him from miles away, straining to look through frosted glass on the opposite side of the world. He held her head, caressed her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb.

  


Rose’s hand floated upward again, catching the Doctor’s fingers and tangling them with her own. With her distant, urgent gaze still fixed on the Doctor’s eyes, her lips quivered and very slowly, very quietly, she breathed a single word.

  


“. . .Stay. . .”

  


The Doctor drew in his breath. Tears left glistening trails down his cheeks. “I can’t.” He sobbed. “Rose. I can’t.” Her fingers closed tighter around his own. “And you can’t, either. You don’t belong here; two universes have been disrupted because the Master brought you here and that can never be. If you stay, it will kill you.”

  


Rose closed her eyes, and tears sparkled on her lashes.

  


The Doctor kissed her forehead, drew her closer to him, rocked her against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then louder, his voice breaking, “I can’t stay.”

  


The Master let out an exaggerated sigh. “Pathetic,” he spat out. “You’re such a disappointment, Doctor.”

  


The Doctor looked up, eyes wild. “The hole in the breach--where is it?”

  


The Master’s face showed suspicion. “Why? You’re not going to throw her into the Howling yourself?”

  


“She’s not going to the Void,” the Doctor said. “She’s going back where she belongs.”

  


The Master stepped to the very center of the shiny black floor, and gazed down at his reflection. The Doctor saw a shiver, then a ripple, then a small circle revealed itself, quick concentric waves of energy from the center outward.

  


“It’s not for you to decide,” the Master asserted, his eyes narrow. “The Void’s there whether you like it or not. You can’t fix everything, Doctor.”

  


The Doctor moved to stand, cradling Rose in his arms and carrying her across the room. Her eyelashes fluttered against his neck. She grasped weakly at the front of his coat with one hand. He stopped at the edge of the rippling portal in the center of the floor, opposite the Master. Rose’s lips brushed the base of the Doctor’s jaw, under his ear.

  


“Don’t cry,” he said softly, “You won’t remember.” He kissed her temple.

  


Rose was stirring now, waking up; the glamour was wearing off. The Doctor lowered her to the floor, and she teetered atop the ripples of the portal on her impossible shoes as he held her elbows to steady her. She gathered bunches of his sleeves in her hands and held tight. The Doctor looked into her sad, shimmering eyes, and it was the real Rose--his own Rose--whose gaze he met. The fog had lifted; the glamour had worn off.

  


“But I want to remember,” she protested, tears slipping down her cheeks, “If this is the last time I’ll see you, I want to remember.”

  


The Doctor said softly, “I’m sorry. You won’t.”

  


Distantly, from beyond the other side of the portal, came a familiar voice calling, “Rose? Where’s she gone?. . .She was just here! . . .Rose!. . .Didja see that, Pete? What was that?”

  


Rose glanced down, “Mum?”

  


“Let go, Rose, you’re going home,” said the Doctor.

  


Rose shuddered. “I can’t leave you again.”

  


“You won’t remember,” he reassured her, with a small, sad smile playing at his lips.

  


“Will you, though?”

  


The Doctor’s hands drifted away from her. Rose at last let go of his sleeves. She seemed to hover there a moment, just long enough to wrap her arms around herself, then she dropped and was gone.

  


The floor solidified instantly and the Master, raging, yanked the Doctor by his necktie. “What happened to the Void?” he demanded. “What did you do?!”

  


The Doctor flung the Master’s hands away. “It’s what you did,” he said. “Your Xthunian glamour--it sloughed all the Void Stuff off of her. She was clean. The Void didn’t want her.”

  


The Doctor smoothed the front of his jacket and approached Donna and Jack, stooping to look into their eyes, which were still distant and hazy. He stood and turned on his heel.

  


“We’re leaving.”

  


The Master had slumped on the steps, his head in his hands. He did not move; he did not reply.

  


The Doctor strode over to him, crossed his arms, planted his feet. “We’re leaving,” he repeated. “Are you coming?”

  


The Master jumped to his feet, fists clenched. “With you and your freakshow?” he sneered. “No thanks.”

  


“That’s your choice made, then,” the Doctor said evenly.

  


The Master grunted. “You could be so great,” he muttered.

  


The Doctor only looked away, annoyed, or impatient.

  


“Pathetic,” the Master insisted. “Weak!”

  


The Doctor cut his gaze to the Master’s eyes once more. “Are you coming?”

  


In a flurry, the Master dashed to where Donna and Jack sat on the floor, still silent and almost perfectly still. He placed a hand on top of each of their heads, and there was that static crackle again, and a blue-white glow, and they came fully awake in an instant.

  


Donna clambered to her feet and raced to the Doctor, who put one sheltering arm around her.

  


“What the hell is going on?” Donna asked. “Where are we?”

  


Jack stood his ground near the Master. “This guy, again?” he asked almost casually, though he reached toward his holster.

  


The Master looked furious, chest heaving, but said nothing.

  


The Doctor said, “Nevermind him.” He motioned Jack to him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jack crossed the room. Donna reached for his hand.

  


One last time, the Doctor asked, “Are you coming?” Then added, “Master, will you come with me?”

  


The Master roared, raised the palms of his hands toward them. There was a high-pitched warping sound and a blue-white flash.


	17. XVII.

***

  


His decision made, Dexter opened the blades of the scissors as wide as they would go. With a grunting cry of frustration and disappointment, be quickly sliced down and forward through the plastic sheeting that held the woman to his work-table. Working as fast as he could--for the IV was nearly empty now--he cut her free, exposing her slim, pale body. Careful not to miss any details (even in letting her go, he couldn’t risk getting caught), he withdrew her clothes from a bag and dressed her. It was easy, simple stuff: panties, soft pants like pajamas, a tank top and no bra, slip-on shoes, no socks. He worked the chain of the strange, impossible-to-open locket around her neck, and pushed her wedding and engagement rings on her finger. Wait, right hand? Left hand? He slid them off again, examined her fingers for a clue. Both her hands were so thin, and bony. The diamond must have slid off her finger when he brought her here, that’s how it was he hadn’t seen it before.

  


The knuckle of her right ring finger was scabbed, and there was a callous inside her palm where the rings would rub; he pushed the rings on her right hand. He removed the IV, brushed away the pearl of blood that emerged where the needle had slipped out. He began to count.

  


_One. . .two. . ._

  


First, his tools, in trays within boxes, power cords coiled, the IV stand collapsed and strapped together like a bundle of sticks, all of it tucked into a duffel bag and zipped tight.

  


_. . .Sixty-four. . .sixty-five. . ._

  


Casting a glance toward the woman, satisfied she was still deeply drugged, he went to work ripping down the plastic sheeting: first, from the ceiling; then, the walls; finally, the floor. Quick and methodical, he tucked the tape around the edges so it wouldn’t stick to everything, and folded the sheets into neat, tight, rectangular packages. These he stacked in bundles of three, then wrapped tightly in more tape to compress them. The plastic he’d cut from her body, now ruined and useless, he mashed together into a ball and crammed into a garbage bag. The neatly stacked bundles of sheeting he packed in a second duffel bag.

  


_. . .One-eighteen. . .one-nineteen. . ._

  


Gently, Dexter slipped his hands under the woman’s knees and back, and lifted her from the table. She was petite, easy to carry, and he brought her out to the living room and laid her down on the floor there. He paused a few beats, waiting to see. The woman rolled her head to one side and let out a small moan, then was still and quiet again.

  


Returning to the kill-room--though now it was quickly reverting to being just a closet in an empty house--Dexter released the ratcheting nylon straps that held the bathroom door onto the marble-topped island. He packed the straps into the outer pocket of a duffel bag, and carried the door itself back out to the nearby bathroom. He didn’t have time to re-hang it ( _. . .one-forty. . .one-forty-one. . ._ ) so he bashed the edge of it a couple times against the hinges to rough everything up; it would look like more vandalism. He left the door on the tile floor.

  


Dexter removed his sterile clothing, leaving his gloves and shoe covers in place for now, deposited them in the trash bag with the damaged plastic. He gathered the two duffels and the trash bag, all that remained of his elaborate kill-room, enough to carry on his own. With a quick glance over his shoulder at the woman--she had stirred, now lying on her side curled up as if asleep--Dexter slipped out the back doors onto the patio by the pool. Once he made it onto the lawn at the side of the house, he stripped off the shoe covers and gloves, stuffed them into the trash bag and tied it up, then walked away.

  


_. . .Two-fifty._

  


He did not look back.


	18. XVIII.

***

  


The Master, the Lone Emperor of the Empty Kingdom Formerly Called Xthun, lay on the floor of his shiny black throne room, staring at the elaborate ceiling mural of thorny vines without really seeing it.

  


All the Time Lords gone. Just him now, and the whimpering, simpering Doctor, always _spoiling_ everything. Too busy wringing his hands over those useless humans with their tiny brains and short, short lives to see that what the Master saw: that they were not just survivors. They had won. They could do what they liked; there was no one to answer to now. The two of them together. . .

  


The Master sighed, almost dreamily, imagining all they could conquer together if only the Doctor. . .But the Doctor only wanted the Master on his own terms, Twin Emperors of Nothing. Of a wheezing, broken-down old TARDIS and just each other, forever. Two old biddies having tea and saving the crowded, wet, stinking Earth because its people were too stupid to get out of their own way. The Doctor and his tears. The Doctor and his need to fix everything--everything! The Doctor and his big, sad eyes. The Doctor and the Doctor and the Doctor and the noise in his head _the noise in his head_ THE NOISE IN HIS HEAD. . .

  


The Master rose to hands and knees, the crown of his head pressing hard against the floor. But the drumming didn’t stop, because it never stopped. Even when he’d pushed it into the head of that man, that killer, the Master still heard it in his own head, loud as ever. It never, ever stopped.

  


He raised his head and lifted his hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to a ring he wore.

  


“Time to come home, dear,” he muttered, and the ring was warm, and glowed green. Beneath him, on her back on the floor, appeared the woman from Dexter’s kill-room. The Master gripped her chin roughly, shaking her head back and forth.

  


“No Gallifreyan bride, you,” he growled. Then, “Lucy! Wake up!” He slapped her cheek.

  


Her eyes fluttered and struggled to focus, finally settling on his his face. She looked afraid. The Master looked delighted. Lucy drew in her breath to cry out, but the Master mashed his mouth against hers, roughly, biting her lips and tasting her blood--so much metal in it, for non-cyborg lifeform. Soon enough, she gave in and returned the Master’s kiss, just as fiercely, as if they could devour each other.

  


The Master spoke between kisses. “Good news, darling,” he said. “You’re to be an empress, after all.”

  


Lucy smiled.

  



	19. XIX.

***

  


When the Doctor, Donna, and Captain Jack Harkness rematerialized a few yards from the TARDIS, the sun was already rising.

  


“When we left here, it was only just dark,” Donna protested, rising to her feet and smoothing her clothes. “God! I don’t have half a headache.”

  


Jack looked chagrined. “Sorry I wasn’t more help, Doctor.”

  


The Doctor looked him up and down with something like suspicion. “No worries,” he replied tersely. “What were you doing here in the first place? It was seeing you in the newspaper got me all wound up in this Bay Harbor Butcher thing.”

  


“I was looking for you,” Jack said with a slight shrug and a grin, “And you got the message.”

  


The Doctor nodded. “Yes, thanks for that. . .”

  


Jack snapped a quick salute at the Doctor. Then he turned toward Donna and said, “And it was a pleasure meeting you, Donna Noble.”

  


Donna’s cheeks flushed.  “And you,” she said, flirtily. “What are you doing, now?”

  


“Donna, we should go,” the Doctor said in a rush, leading her by the elbow toward the TARDIS.

  


“Oi!” she protested.

  


Jack began to follow them. The Doctor said, “That man--that killer--is still out there. You should go back and talk to the police.”

  


Jack seemed to consider this. “I suppose so.” He looked at his watch. “I should be able to get back in an hour--ninety minutes at the most.” He gave the Doctor an imploring look. The Doctor didn’t reply.

  


“Oh, and one thing,” Jack added, holding his finger in the air, “Donna, I hate to do this to you, but--” and in one quick motion he pricked her arm with a slim needle and just as quickly withdrew it. She swooned, then crumpled, Jack’s arms coming around her in time to save her from hitting the ground.

  


The Doctor protested, “What’s that about?!”

  


“Sorry,” Jack replied, “Amnesia drug. She’ll be fine in about an hour, but she won’t remember having met me, or any of that business with the Master. We can figure out what to tell her when I get back. But just in case. Clean slate.” He swept Donna into his arms and carried her to the TARDIS. Once the Doctor unlocked the door, Jack stepped in and deposited Donna on the floor, her back against a post. He looked around admiringly. “Ah, I’ve missed this.”

  


After a moment, he ventured, “Doctor. . . Was that really her? Was that the real Rose?”

  


The Doctor blew out a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “No,” he replied.

  


It was not even a convincing lie, but Jack left it alone.

  


Instead, he checked his watch again, clapped the Doctor on the shoulder, and repeated, “Ninety minutes at the most.”

  


The Doctor nodded, tight-lipped, and moved to the console to stare at his video monitor.

  


“Sorry again,” Jack said, motioning toward Donna, who snored softly. “She really will be fine.”

  


“Yeh,” the Doctor said.

  


Jack hesitated for a beat, then turned to leave. As he walked out the door, he called back, “Ninety minutes!”

  


As soon as the door closed behind Captain Jack Harkness, the Doctor flipped its lock. He returned to the console and fired up the TARDIS. He punched in coordinates, threw a lever, and leaned on a glowing white button, and with a wheeze and shudder, and--was it?--the faint scent of Longing-For-Loves, the TARDIS was off.

  


THE END.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something Borrowed (Something Blue)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/252142) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander)




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